One

SHE WAS FI­NALLY ­GOING TO escape protocol prison.

Or, in other words, Miss Lucinda Leavitt was graduating
from Miss Holley’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, where
­she’d spent four aggravating years reluctantly obtaining pol-
ish and female accomplishments. She looked down at her pink
dress—it had more layers than a wedding cake. She hoped her
­father would find it pretty and see that she was all grown up
now. That she was able to make decisions for herself.
Miss Holley, the plump proprietor, came into the sitting
room with another ­woman, who was extremely thin with a
long face framed by mousy-­brown braids.
“Miss Holley, by chance has my ­father arrived yet?”
Lucinda asked.

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 Miss Holley sniffed. “Miss Leavitt, do not be presumptu-
ous. Your ­father is a very impor­tant businessman, and he has
better ­t hings to do with his time than accompany you home
from school.”
“Yes, ­ma’am, but I am to leave ­today. ­Will I be allowed to
travel on the train to London alone?” Lucinda asked, unable
to keep the excitement from her voice.
“Do not be fanciful, Miss Leavitt,” Miss Holley said, shak-
ing her head. “Young ladies of quality must be chaperoned at
all times for their safety and for their reputation. ‘For a lady’s
reputation is—’ ”
“ ‘As fragile as a flower,’ ” Lucinda finished without enthu-
siasm.
“I am glad you learned something at my school, Miss
Leavitt,” Miss Holley said. “Although not as much as I would
have liked. But perhaps Mrs. Patton ­w ill be able to succeed
where I have failed.”
“Mrs. Patton?”
Miss Holley touched her massive bosom and said, “Dear
me, I should have introduced you at the first, Lavinia. Miss
Leavitt, allow me to introduce your new lady’s companion,
Mrs. Lavinia Patton. She is an old friend of mine.”
“Companion? I ­don’t need a companion,” Lucinda said,
rising.
“Manners, Miss Leavitt, manners,” Miss Holley chided.
“Your ­father has already hired Mrs. Patton upon my recom-
mendation. She ­w ill introduce you to the best of society and
help you become an elegant lady.”

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 Lucinda curtsied to the long-­faced ­woman. “I am pleased
to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Patton. How long should I
expect the plea­sure of your com­pany?”
Mrs. Patton bowed her head slightly. “­Until you are mar-
ried, dear girl. Which I should not think ­w ill be too long,
given your face and fortune.”
“You forget her low birth . . . ​a nd that she is obstinate
and headstrong, with a mind of her own,” Miss Holley said.
“Still, if anyone can help Miss Leavitt to an advantageous
match, it is you, Lavinia.”
But I ­don’t want to get married, Lucinda thought fiercely. I want
to work in my ­father’s counting­house.

ac

Two weeks ­later, Lucinda bit her thumbnail in frustrated

boredom.
Being an elegant lady is exceedingly dull work, she thought as she sat
on the edge of her chair next to the win­dow, waiting for the
post to arrive. She had nothing ­else to do. It was too early in
the day to make calls and too late in the day to lie in bed.
So she counted the carriages that passed the street in front
of her house—­t hirty-­two. She counted the ­people who walked
by—­forty-­seven (twenty-­t hree ­women and twenty-­four men).
She was about to count the bricks on the ­house across the street
when the postman arrived. She jumped from her chair and
ran to the door before the butler, Mr. Ruffles, could answer
it. She flung open the door and startled the postman, who was
opening the letter box.

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 “I’ll take ­t hose,” she said, reaching out her hand.
The postman touched his navy cap and bowed to her
before handing her several letters and a small package.
“Thank you!” Lucinda said and shut the door. She turned
to see Mr. Ruffles standing ­behind her. He bowed to her. He
was shorter than Lucinda and had a square-­shaped face and a
mouth that never smiled.
“­Here’s the post, Ruffles,” she said, handing him the stack
of letters. They ­were all for her ­father anyway. She kept the
small parcel clutched tightly in her white-­k nuckled hands,
knowing exactly what it was. Lucinda skipped to the sitting
room, where ladies sat . . . ​a lot. Her companion, Mrs. Patton,
was already sleeping in a chair, snoring with her mouth
open.
Lucinda quietly closed the door. She untied the twine and
unwrapped the brown paper to reveal Wheathill’s Magazine, the
May 1861 edition. Lucinda squealed silently and hopped up
and down on the balls of her feet.
It was fi­nally h
­ ere!
She sat down on the sofa, flipped open the cover, and
found the ­table of contents. The newest installment of She Knew
She Was Right by Mrs. Smith began on page thirty-­six. Lucinda
turned the pages quickly ­until she reached the correct page.
­T here was an illustration—­a young lady dressed in a ball gown
with a gentleman on each side. Both gentlemen held one arm
outstretched ­toward her. The caption under­neath read: Whom
­will she choose? The same question had been plaguing Lucinda

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 since she read the April edition of the magazine. Now, a month
­later, her curiosity was at last to be satiated. ­A fter two years of
reading the book published in serial form, she was fi­n ally
­going to read the ending.
Lucinda held her breath and began to read:

“My feelings are like a tangled web, Miss

Emerson,” Lord Dunstan said as he clasped her deli­
cate hand between his two large ones. “And only you can
unravel them.”
Eurydice’s heart fluttered and her face flushed with
color. Lord Dunstan was so very tall, dark, and hand­
some, with only a slight white scar under­neath his left
ear to disfigure his other­wise natu­ral beauty.
“Lord Dunstan, I do believe you are flirting
with me.”
“I am not flirting, my dear Miss Emerson,” he
said. “I am completely in earnest. You alone hold all
of my affections. All of my dreams and wishes for my
­future are tangled up around you.”
Could this be a declaration? Eurydice could hardly
breathe. Her heart beat wildly. She looked down at her
feet, for she was too embarrassed to look him in the
eye.
“Miss Emerson, before I can beg you to be mine
for all time, I must tell you the truth of my past.”
Eurydice was surprised enough by ­these words to

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 look up into his dark, stormy eyes and hold her breath
in terrible expectation.
“Lord Dunstan,” Mr. Thisbe called from the door
of the h­ ouse. “Lord Dunstan, Mr. Emerson wishes to
have speech with you.”
“We ­will have to finish our conversation ­later, my
dear Miss Emerson. I leave you most reluctantly,”
Lord Dunstan said, and kissed the top of Eurydice’s
hand before releasing it.
Eurydice could only nod, so ­great was her embar­
rassment. Lord Dunstan walked into the h­ ouse, and
Mr. Thisbe came out to the garden where Eurydice was
picking flowers. He was not as tall nor as handsome
as Lord Dunstan, but his blue eyes w
­ ere open and kind.
He had an air of virtue and humility. To Eurydice’s
shock, he knelt before her on the grass and took the
same hand that Lord Dunstan had recently held and
kissed.
“Miss Emerson,” Mr. Thisbe said, “I believe that
the Lord above ordained us for one another. Will you
do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Lucinda’s heart raced as if ­she’d run up a hill. Which

suitor would Eurydice choose? But the next page was blank.
Lucinda frowned, wondering if ­t here had been some sort of
misprint. When she continued on, the next page had a note
from the editor:

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 ­Here the story is broken off, and it can never be
finished. What promised to be the crowning work of a
life is a memorial of death. The Editor regrets to inform
the Reader that Mrs. Smith has died. But if the work
is not quite complete, ­little remains to be added to it,
and that ­little has been distinctly reflected into our
minds. Which suitor would Eurydice Emerson have
chosen? The handsome and mysterious Lord Dunstan,
or the kind and generous Mr. Thisbe? Now we ­will
never know.
Thomas Gibbs, Editor, 1861

“But I must know!” Lucinda said aloud.

She sat up in disbelief and quickly read the editor’s note
again. She bit the end of her thumbnail and blinked away
tears that had formed in her eyes. Her favorite author could
not have died. It was impossible. Unthinkable. Mrs. Smith’s nov-
els ­were Lucinda’s only escape from the endless monotony of
her existence.
Mrs. Patton awoke from her dozing. She blinked several
times and brought her lace handkerchief to her mouth, sigh-
ing long and loud.
“­Really, Lucinda,” she chided in a singsong voice. “That
is hardly a ladylike tone to be using.”
“She’s dead,” Lucinda said numbly, and slumped back on
the sofa, tears falling freely from her eyes. She wiped them
away with the back of her hand.

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 “Who is dead?” Mrs. Patton asked, sitting up straight.
“The author of She Knew She Was Right is dead,” Lucinda said
with a sniffle. “And now the story ­w ill remain unfinished.”
Mrs. Patton gave another long sigh and leaned back in her
seat. “You quite shocked me, my dear. I was thinking it was one
of our friends.”
Lucinda merely rolled her wet eyes in reply and gave a loud
sniff. She ­didn’t have any friends. Mrs. Patton was only a hired
companion; a ­w idow with ­little money, noble birth, and no
love of lit­er­a­ture.
“Perhaps you need an airing, Lucinda,” Mrs. Patton said
in chipper voice as she stood. “We ­h aven’t been outside in
three days. I’ll call for a carriage. Why ­don’t you get our call-
ing cards? We can leave one at Mrs. Randall’s ­house. A most
advantageous social connection, indeed, especially consider-
ing her son is your ­father’s business partner. Particularly when
your own origins are more, ­shall we say, ­humble?”
“­Humble,” Lucinda echoed numbly and clutched the
magazine to her chest.

ac

Mrs. Patton and Lucinda sat in the carriage while the foot-

man left calling cards at nine separate ­houses, including the
Randalls’. For an airing, they ­weren’t getting much air at all,
and ­were instead just sitting like well-­dressed dolls in a car-
riage. Lucinda still held the magazine against her chest, hoping
somehow that she had misread it and the ­whole after­noon was

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 only a terrible dream. But ­every time she flipped open the pages,
the editor’s note told her once again that Mrs. Smith was dead.
“­Really, my dear,” Mrs. Patton sighed, “you are not behav-
ing like a well-­brought-up young lady from Miss Holley’s
select school. It is foolish, and dare I add unladylike, to take so
much to heart the death of a complete stranger.”
“Yes, Mrs. Patton,” Lucinda said and tried to chew on her
thumbnail, only to remember she was wearing gloves.
But she was not a well-­brought-up young lady—­she was a
stubborn one. And never knowing the ending to her favorite
story was simply unacceptable.
Lucinda needed a plan. She would go to the editor and
demand to be told every­t hing he knew about Mrs.  Smith.
Surely one of Mrs. Smith’s kin, or a par­tic­u ­lar friend, must
know how she intended to finish the story. Or at the very least,
they could allow Lucinda to peruse Mrs. Smith’s notes and
final papers. She opened the magazine and read the address on
the cover page.
She was about to give the directions to her driver when a
thought stopped her—­W hat if the editor refuses to see me? The busi-
ness district in London was run entirely by men. As much as
it made Lucinda fume with indignation, an unchaperoned,
unmarried young ­woman w
­ ouldn’t make it past the front-­desk
clerk. If she wanted to be taken seriously by the editor, she
would need a man to accompany her. It was preposterous non-
sense, but Lucinda was willing to swallow her own pride in
order to learn Eurydice’s fate.

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 She knocked loudly on the side of the carriage. Mrs. Patton
jerked her head in surprise as the carriage slowed to a stop.
Lucinda leaned her head out of the open win­dow and called,
“Simms, please take us to my ­father’s office on Tooley Street.”
“Very good, miss,” the coachman said, and tipped his hat
to her.
Lucinda pulled her head back inside and said with a bright
voice, “One more call to make ­today, Mrs. Patton.”
“Just as you wish it, dear girl,” Mrs. Patton said. “But keep
in mind we have the party at the Freshams’ to­n ight, and it
would be wise for a young lady to rest before the exertions of
dancing.”
“I ­don’t think I am in any danger of too much exertion
walking from the carriage into my f­ ather’s office.”
Mrs. Patton sighed again and Lucinda ignored it. She had
not been to her ­father’s office in nearly four years, but before
then, from the age of eight to the awkward age of fourteen,
­she’d spent nearly ­every day ­there. ­She’d played with dolls sur-
rounded by the ledgers ­until her ­father started to give her
­little tasks to complete. The tasks grew more complicated over
the years ­until she was faster at addition than any of his clerks
and could catch a m
­ istake in a number column better than
even her ­father.
The carriage came to a stop, and Lucinda flung open the
door and jumped out before the footman could assist her. The
sign on the front of the imposing two-­story brick building
read RANDALL AND LEAVITT in bold black lettering.

10

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 Ignoring Mrs.  Patton’s calls for her to wait, Lucinda
opened the door. Immediately she was met by the familiar
smell of paper and leather-bound books. She breathed in
deeply, inhaling memories. She did not bother to speak to any
of the clerks; she knew her way around the office and ­didn’t
need—or want—­t hem to escort her. Instead, she walked past
row ­after row of desks, up the stairs, and down the hall to
her ­father’s office. She knocked on the door but did not wait
for a reply before she opened it eagerly, only to find the room
empty.
The room looked exactly the same as she remembered it.
She caressed the well-­worn desk with her fin­gers and then
touched her ­father’s wingback chair. She turned to see a famil-
iar el­derly man with snowy-white hair and black-­beetle eye-
brows standing ­behind her in the doorway.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”
“Mr. Murphy! How long it has been,” Lucinda said. “How
does your ­family?”
“My stars, it’s Miss Lucy!”
“In the flesh,” she said with her most winning smile. Miss
Holley always said that a lady’s greatest weapon was her smile.
“All grown up,” he remarked kindly. “Mrs. Murphy ­w ill
be so pleased that I saw you. She asked a­ fter you only last week.
But I am afraid that your ­father has gone to his ware­house
about some business.”
“It is no ­g reat ­m atter,” Lucinda said. “I can wait in his
office. I’ve learned that waiting is what ladies do best.”

11

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 Another invaluable lesson from Miss Holley’s Finishing
School.
“And a fine lady ­you’ve turned out to be, Miss Lucy,”
Mr. Murphy said. “But your f­ ather might not return for several
hours. If you need assistance, you should request it of Mr.
Randall. He’s in his f­ ather’s old office, down the hall.”
“I’d much rather not,” Lucinda said, sitting in her fa-
ther’s wingback chair and tapping her fin­gers on his mahog-
any desk.
“Your ­father may not return to the office at all ­today, Miss
Lucy,” Mr.  Murphy said anxiously. “I should hate to have
you waste your entire after­noon. You’d better go speak to
Mr. Randall.”
Waiting and ­doing nothing was what Lucinda did ­every
after­noon, but she did not wish to offend Mr. Murphy, who had
always been so kind to her when she was younger. He’d often
brought her cakes and cookies that his wife had made. But she
cringed at the thought of having to ask Mr. David Randall for
assistance. Even though he’d been her first—­and only—­friend.
David was the son of her ­father’s business partner. ­She’d
taught him how to read an accounting ledger, and he’d taught
her how to play marbles and quoits. But then David’s ­father
died, leaving him—at only fifteen years old—owner of his
­father’s half of the business. And then he was no longer her
friend.
He was one of the reasons why she had been sent to a fin-
ishing school prison. ­She’d told him something in confidence,

12

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 and he’d told his ­mother, who’d told her ­father, and Lucinda
had found herself packed up and sent away to that ivied prison
to become a lady. Just thinking of his self-­satisfied face made
Lucinda long to slap it.
Lucinda stood and exhaled. “Very well, Mr.  Murphy. I
­w ill go and see if Mr. Randall ­w ill assist me.”
She gave him a warm smile as she passed by and found that
David’s office door was already open. Unlike her ­father’s office,
which ­hadn’t changed a whit in twenty years, this room had
under­gone a transformation. The shelves ­were lined with
books instead of antique snuffboxes, and a large circular globe
sat prominently on a much larger white oak desk. And ­behind
it sat Mr. David Randall.
Lucinda fought the urge to roll her eyes; he was more hand-
some than she remembered. In the four years since she last saw
him, his face had lost some of its youthfulness. Thick brown
sideburns now ran down each side of his face, elongating his
square jaw. His light brown eyes looked at her in surprise, and
he stood up. He was one of the few men who were taller than
Lucinda, at least six feet tall. It felt odd to look up to speak.
“Is ­t here something I can help you with, ma’am—­miss?”
he asked in a pleasant tone.
He clearly ­didn’t recognize her.
“I have never thought highly of your intelligence, Mr.
Randall,” Lucinda said, “but ­really, you should be able to
remember your partner’s only d
­ aughter.”
Lucinda felt plea­sure in seeing his eyes widen and his jaw

13

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 drop. She smiled and took a seat. She gestured for him to sit
as well. He obeyed, perching on the edge of his chair like he
was on a social call instead of sitting in his own office.
“­T here is something you can help me with since my ­father
is not ­here,” Lucinda said. His jaw dropped slightly lower. “Do
not worry, it does not require any ­g reat effort on your part. I
need you to accompany me to a publishing ­house and get me
an appointment with the editor.”
“A publishing h
­ ouse?”
“Yes, the place where they publish ­t hings,” Lucinda said,
as if he w
­ ere a small child.
David did not respond immediately, but blinked at her as
if he thought she was an apparition caused by the excessive
heat.
“As much as I would like to assist you, Miss Leavitt,” David
said at last, “I am afraid that I have far too much work to do
­today.”
He pointed to the stack of ledgers on his desk.
“I should not wish to keep you from your work.” Lucinda
turned in her seat to look at the door where Mr. Murphy was
standing waiting patiently. “Mr. Murphy, would you be so
good as to tell my coachman, Simms, to take Mrs. Patton home
and then return ­here for me?”
Lucinda turned back to David as Mr. Murphy dis­appeared
to do as she asked. She placed her magazine on his desk, then
removed her gloves and bonnet. “Which one ­shall I start
with?” she asked, smiling brightly.

14

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 He did not immediately reply, so Lucinda took the ledger
from the top of the stack and picked up David’s pen. She
flipped to the last page and carefully began examining the col-
umns, adding the numbers in her head.
“I have already done that one,” David said as he pulled
another pen out of his desk drawer and placed it on the led-
ger he’d been checking when she walked in.
“I know,” Lucinda said, circling the third line over. “But
you missed a ­m istake. The clerk is off a farthing in this
column.”
“Thank you, Miss Leavitt,” David said dryly. “A quarter of
a penny ­m atters a ­g reat deal to our com­pany’s financial
success.”
Lucinda shrugged and muttered audibly, “It’s still a
­mistake.”
She handed the ledger back to David. He took it and then
handed her another.
“I am grateful for your assistance,” he said in a tone that
sounded anything but thankful.
“I’m sure you are,” she said. She loved numbers. She loved
adding the impossibly high sums in her head with no other
assistance but her mind. She checked the next ledger. Then
the next. And fi­nally, between the two of them, they had com-
pleted ten ledgers. She handed the last book back to David.
“I daresay, Simms has prob­ably returned with the carriage
by now,” she said. “It is only a few blocks to my home and back.
­Shall we go to the publishing ­house?”

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 “The place that publishes ­t hings,” David clarified with a
small smile.
Lucinda wished to slap it from his face, but she was on her
best be­hav­ior. So instead, she nodded and said, “Precisely.”
Lucinda pulled on her gloves and bonnet, then picked
up her magazine as David put on his coat and his tall beaver
top hat.
She could not wipe the smug look off her face. She ­didn’t
even try to.

16

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 Two

DAVID RANDALL HATED RIDING BACKWARD in a carriage.

It always made him feel sick. But he’d rather feel sick than sit
next to Lucy—­Miss Lucinda Leavitt now. Although sitting across
from her gave him ample opportunity to view her alarming
transformation from gangly girl to grown-up ­woman. He could
hardly believe they ­were the same person. That is, ­until she
opened her mouth; then David had no difficulty discerning
his partner’s out­spoken d
­ aughter.
Gone was the stooped, overly tall girl with untidy braids.
In her place was a ­woman who embraced all of her inches.
Dark brown curls—­nearly black—­framed her oval face. She had
large, startlingly light blue eyes with thick black lashes and

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 brows. She was certainly an attractive young ­woman, but her
expression was smug and self-­satisfied.
David felt a twinge of annoyance. Lucinda’s smug look
reminded him of the expression on his ­father’s face whenever
he had made a ­mistake. His ­father had always made him feel
foolish. Incapable.
“What is your business with the publisher?” David asked
impatiently. “And, yes, I realize what a publisher is.”
“I would love to gratify your idle curiosity, but I prefer to
keep you in suspense,” Lucinda said archly. “We require a few
moments of the editor’s time, a Mr. Thomas Gibbs.”
David nodded and did not venture to speak again ­u ntil
they arrived at the offices of Wheathill’s Magazine. The black build-
ing was tall and narrow, like a small book pressed between
two larger ones, with a sign hanging above the door.
David waved aside the footman and hopped out of the car-
riage. He turned and offered his hand to ­Lucinda, who took
it and carefully stepped down.
He could not help but notice that she smelled nice. Like
flowers. David shook ­t hese irrelevant thoughts from his head
and entered the building ­behind her. A bald clerk with thick
sideburns gave a deferential nod to David and Lucinda.
David took out his business card and gave it to him. “I am
Mr.  David Randall, of Randall and Leavitt, and I require
speech with your Mr. Thomas Gibbs immediately.”
The clerk took the card and bowed again. “Yes, Mr.
Randall. Just one moment, sir.”
He dis­appeared through the door.

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 “Bravo,” Lucinda said with a grin, and clapped her hands.
“That was positively imperial.”
Despite his efforts, David ­couldn’t keep his lips from
forming a small smile.
A few minutes ­later, the clerk returned with another gen-
tleman. He was a head shorter than David, with red curly hair
and even thicker sideburns than his clerk. The editor shook
David’s hand and then began to bow to Lucinda but stopped
midway to ogle her. The editor must have realized he looked too
long, ­because he straightened his posture and reddened right
up to the roots of his hair.
“I am Mr. Thomas Gibbs. I assume I have the plea­sure of
addressing Mr. and Mrs. Randall?” he asked.
“No,” Lucinda said. “I am Miss Leavitt. Mr. Randall is my
­father’s business partner, and he kindly agreed to accompany
me h
­ ere. And I can assure you that the plea­sure is all mine.
I am a g­ reat admirer of your magazine, sir.”
“Um, thank you.”
“And I know a true connoisseur of lit­er­a­ture like yourself
would be only too ready to assist me in my quest to discover the
true ending of Mrs. Smith’s story.”
David shook his head in disbelief, but Mr. Gibbs swal-
lowed Lucinda’s flattery like pear-­drop candies.
“Of course,” he said.
“Thank you so very much, Mr. Gibbs,” she said. “Now,
I would like the deceased Mrs. Smith’s forwarding address,
her first name if you know it, and the names of any surviv-
ing kin.”

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 Mr. Gibbs’s eyes widened, and he sputtered, “Ex-excuse
me?”
Lucinda gave him a condescending smile. “Mrs. Smith, the
author of She Knew She Was Right, the book you serialized in your
magazine.”
Mr. Gibbs blinked several times. “Of course, I would be
only too happy to help you, Miss Leavitt. It is a pity the Lord
took Mrs. Smith too soon.”
“A ­g reat pity,” Lucinda concurred. “Would you like to
take us back to your office so you can retrieve the requested
information?”
Gibbs blinked several more times. “Y-­y-­yes. This way,
Miss Leavitt.”
Gibbs opened the door for Lucinda and then followed her
through it, allowing it to swing closed. David sighed. The fel-
low had forgotten his existence. He opened the door and found
Lucinda leaning over the editor’s desk. Gibbs flipped through
a file, then took out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
“We sent Mrs.  Smith’s last two payments to a Mrs.  B.
Smith staying in the boarding house at number fifteen Laura
Place, Bath.”
“Do you know what the B stands for?” Lucinda pressed.
“I’m afraid I do not,” Gibbs said, shaking his red head.
“No one in our office ever met her in person.”
“I see,” Lucinda said as she perused the paper again.
“What address did you previously send her pay to?”
Gibbs riffled through the file for several minutes.
“My clerk must have misplaced it,” Gibbs said at last.

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 “May I keep this paper?” Lucinda asked.
“Of course, Miss Leavitt,” Gibbs said, his face reddening
by the moment.
“And may I ask you another question, sir?”
“Anything.”
David snorted.
Lucinda gave the editor a fulsome smile. “When was the
last time you heard from Mrs. Smith?”
Gibbs riffled through the file one last time and pulled out
a sheet of paper with the tiniest handwriting David had ever
seen. “The last time I heard from her was in March, Miss
Leavitt. Someone ­else sent ­t hese last two pages of the story, as
well as a letter notifying me that Mrs. B. Smith had died.”
He handed her the sheet of paper, and David leaned closer
to hear Lucinda whisper under­neath her breath:
“ ‘My feelings are like a tangled web, Miss Emerson,” Lord Dunstan said as
he clasped her delicate hand between his two large ones. “And only you can
unravel them.’ ”
She mumbled more lines that he could not understand
before she said:
“ ‘Miss Emerson,” Mr. Thisbe said, “I believe that the Lord above ordained
us for one another. ­Will you do me the ­great honor of becoming my wife?’ ”
“It’s the last scene you published,” Lucinda said as she
looked up at Gibbs. “Who notified you of her death?”
The editor pulled another letter from the file, but the
handwriting on this page was entirely dif­fer­ent from the first.
Each word was completed with a curvy flourish at the end, and
the letter was one of the shortest he’d ever seen. Gibbs handed

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 it to Lucinda and pointed to the bottom, which was conspic-
uously missing a signature.
“­Here is the letter. Not signed, as you can see.”
She shook her head and read aloud: “ ‘Mr. Gibbs, I regret to
inform you that the author Mrs.  B. Smith died on March 3, 1861, from an
internal complaint. I’ve included the last pages that she gave for me to read.
Yours.’ Unsigned. How very frustrating.”
David pried both pages from Lucinda’s fin­gers and handed
them back to Gibbs. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Gibbs. If
we require any additional assistance, we ­w ill let you know.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, and smiled as he added, “Miss
Leavitt, it has been a very ­great plea­sure making your acquain-
tance. It is a delight to meet a young lady who is as passion-
ately fond of lit­er­a­ture as yourself.”
“You are too kind, Mr.  Gibbs,” Lucinda said, but her
expression was forlorn.
David bowed to the editor, then took Lucinda by the elbow
and escorted her out of the building. She did not pull away,
but walked as if she ­were dazed. David handed her into the
carriage and then nodded to Gibbs, who had followed them
to the front door. He tapped his cane against the side of the
carriage to signal the coachman to drive.
“That was rather abrupt, Mr.  Randall,” Lucinda said,
rubbing her elbow. “What is your hurry?”
David rolled his eyes. “I have real work to do, and I could
not stand to listen to him fawn over you any longer. Why did
you encourage him?”

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 “Why ­shouldn’t I encourage a man of comfortable cir-
cumstances to compliment me?” Lucinda asked, back to her
sharp self. “Is it not a young ­woman’s purpose in life to find
a suitable man to marry her, and take on all of the worldly
cares that are too difficult for her delicate constitution?”
“Yours is anything but delicate,” he retorted, knowing full
well she was needling him.
“Well, you should know,” Lucinda said. “We’ve been
acquainted since childhood and I have not altered.”
“In some ways, you ­haven’t,” he said, looking her up and
down. “And in ­others, you most definitely have.”
“And you ­haven’t changed one bit,” she said, folding her
arms across the silly magazine that ­she’d carried around all
day like a doll.
“Thank you.”
“It ­wasn’t meant to be a compliment.”
“I am aware of that.”
Lucinda pursed her lips and eyed him with a fastidious-
ness that made him squirm beneath her gaze. ­A fter moments
of contemplation, she fi­nally said, “­Shall I drop you off at the
office or s­ hall I take you home?”
“The office is fine, Miss Leavitt.”
She did not speak again ­until the carriage pulled up in
front of the red brick building. He exited the carriage and
turned to tip his hat to her. She nodded and said, “Good day,
Mr. Randall. Thank you for your assistance with the publish-
ing h
­ ouse.”

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 “The place that publishes ­t hings,” he said gravely and
bowed to her, then turned to enter the counting­house, not
waiting for nor wanting to see her reaction.
Back upstairs in his office, he found that enough work for
three men had been left on his desk. David sighed, taking off
his hat and untying his cravat. He needed more air and more
time.

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